Freedom's Ransom (20 page)

•   •   •

THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER JELCO boarded the KDM, they received clearance to leave Newark Airport, with many good wishes for a safe flight. New York Center was going to turn them over to Air Africa Control so certain protocols were taken care of. And now that they were aware of the surprise a vertical lift and takeoff
vessel gave Tower Control crews, they would handle their appearance at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport with more aplomb if they had to land there.

Kris decreed that, since the rolls had been so useful in New York, she didn't see why they wouldn't be in Kenya, where they might meet more people who would be delighted with freshly baked bread.

The notion of baking her way across the Atlantic and the Dark Continent left her grinning.

She did her baking with the help of Clune and Floss. The girl was still a restless type and had not liked being immured in the KDM the previous day when “everyone else” appeared to be out and about and having fun. She ignored the fact that Ferris and Clune had lugged heavy sacks of potatoes back to the ship, and that Bazil and Peran had carried in bundles of carrots and greens.
They
had been out and about
her
native planet. Kris recognized a certain merit in her argument and hoped she would be able to include Floss in some unusual activity at their current destination, even if she only helped with the rolls and bread they were going to use as goodwill offerings. She couldn't remember if Kenyans ate bread as a rule but it had once been a British colony and probably bread was known, no matter what other cereal grain was more popular. Jax remembered something about manioc but didn't know what it was. Kathy had suggested rice but Kris didn't think Kenya was rice country, which required irrigated fields. Kenya did have avocados, bananas, and other fresh fruits that might be available. They'd just have to wait and see. A banana, Kris thought whimsically, would taste very good. It had been so long since she had had one!

They were not challenged on the flight. The Atlantic Ocean was not that exciting from a high altitude. Even Africa was more a pattern of greens and beiges as they sped across it on the great circle route. Jax handled the controls well as they dropped out of hypersonic space, being high enough for a view of Lake Rudolph and the
ripple of the Rift Valley. Nairobi Tower welcomed them in their space and gave them directions to their destination.

•   •   •

FOLLOW THE BIG ROAD NORTHWEST FIFTY miles: You can probably see it—it's the C-84 and keep the Karura forest on the port side. You're looking for a small town among ridges. About thirteen land kilometers from the airport. We understand that you are VTOL and there is sufficient parking in front of the warehouse to accommodate you.”

“Over, Nairobi, and thank you. Out.”

“They said they were from Botany,” they heard the air controller say. “Where the hell's Botany?” Whatever response he got was lost as he shut off his microphone but those in the cockpit grinned at his confusion.

They found the site without too much trouble. The forest was unmistakable and the road twisted, visible to the starboard of the thick trees. Jax reduced airspeed. In fact, she laughed that it took almost more time to lose speed than it did to make the transatlantic segment.

It was easy to follow the road, visible through the lush forestry when the land swept upward to the very edge of the Rift Valley area.

As a final identification, the warehouse had
KIAMBU RIDGE
painted in big white letters on its roof.

“Hey, neat,” Jax said with relief at having almost completed such a prestigious run. “Hope they don't freak out seeing a spaceship land.”

“Open the hatch and let the smell of fresh bread waft out and entice them to our web, hehehehe,” Kris said, doing her evil-witch imitation and rubbing her hands together. Chuck grinned but the display was lost on Zainal, though Floss, whom Kris had made sure had one of the jump seats to witness this landing, gave a contemptuous “Pshaw!”

Though the KDM was no longer supersonic, it made sufficient noise in landing to bring a number of people
out of the warehouse. The building had a galvanized roof, propped up by pillars of cinder blocks, but the facade was lined with local stone. As Jax cut the engines, Zainal and Jelco took places at the hatch until it was safe to open and extend the ramp. Several men, dressed in the long skirts used for cool comfort on this continent, came forward to greet them.

“Hi there, I am Jelco, representing Dan Vitali, Newark Airport Coordinator,” Jelco said, holding the pharmaceutical package up so it was visible.

A very tall black man grinned, his teeth so white in his face that Bazil, standing by his father, was astonished and automatically came out with a Masai greeting.

Startled, the man halted midstride, staring first at Bazil and then at Zainal.

“Catteni?” he demanded, his nostrils flaring, smile disappearing.

Whatever Bazil said in response relieved the man, and he resumed his welcoming grin. He said something else and Bazil gave what was obviously a very courteous reply.

“He did not think our race could speak his language,” Bazil said in a proud aside to his father. “He feels honored for his entire tribe.”

“Good,” Jelco murmured. “We have the medicines that were requested.”

A second man, a stethoscope lying around his neck and sweat dripping down his shoulders, heaved a dramatic sigh of relief and stepped forward. “You cannot know how many lives you will be saving with this. Welcome, and thrice welcome. I'm Dr. Standish.” He looked through the contents, sighing with relief as he identified the various packages. “Will you excuse me if I dash off?”

“Certainly,” Jelco said. “We understand the need for haste.”

“What I don't understand is how you got here so fast. My coordinator only got the radio message an hour ago.”

“This ship is hypersonic, Doctor,” Zainal said, “and we understood that time was critical.”

“You have no idea,” the doctor replied, somewhat distracted. “Father Simeon's prayers are the most efficacious I have ever encountered. Excuse me.” He dashed off to a waiting jeep that bore a faded Red Cross insignia and some other emblems that neither Kris nor Chuck could identify.

“Please to come inside. Coffee is available for your pleasure,” said the African. “I am Chief Sembu.”

Bazil then suavely introduced the arrivals and included Floss, who was hovering, slightly out of sight. Sembu was once more astonished when Floss gave him a greeting in the Masai's Swahili dialect. Kris urgently gestured for her to accompany the party.

Jelco strode into the warehouse and into what was obviously a tasting room. The smell of rich, dark coffee was a fragrance everyone inhaled, and there was a small pot of brown sugar fragments to sweeten the fine brew. Underlying the coffee odor was something else, fruity, which she couldn't identify.

Jelco and Sembu sat opposite each other and began the dickering.

“A plane we could load easily,” Sembu was saying, gesturing to the contents of the warehouse, glimpsed through the separating window. “That . . . aircraft looks as if it could take all we have bagged.”

“And roasted?” Jelco asked.

“Well, not all are roasted,” Sembu had to admit. “For one thing, we counted on an average-sized plane. Secondly, our buyers usually have their own roasters and prefer to have their people supervise such a delicate operation.”

“Will Barevi appreciate ‘careful' roasting?” Kris asked Zainal. She knew the process took time but did they have any to spare?

“How much is already roasted, Chief Sembu?” Jelco asked.

“We surmised that you would bring the largest aircraft you have,” Sembu said with an understanding grin. “A 747, perhaps. We have sufficient to fill that size craft that have been roasted, as we agreed with Coord Vitali.”

“And enough for a two-thousand-ton capacity?” Chuck asked.

“Hmm, but not all would be roasted.”

“Beggars can't be choosers.”

“Nor winners poor losers,” Sembu said and extended his hand to Chuck. “I can provide you with a roaster and instructions, but roasting is a delicate business.”

“We'll take the roaster, and the mistakes will be ours,” Chuck said, taking the hand. “In all fairness to Jelco here and the green coord,” he added, “they'd no idea we'd be dropping the KDM in their lap, so to speak.”

The deal was struck and the chief gave orders to his workers to start loading. At which point Zainal called back to the ship to bring out the lifts. He suspected they'd be needed to load the roaster, though he'd no idea what size the thing would be.

That was providential because the large and bulky roaster could accommodate three sacks of beans at a time. It was loaded onto the KDM. Sembu was fascinated by the lift, even after Zainal warned him that its power pack was half-drained, but trading it bought them all the fresh produce they could store as well as four twenty-five-pound sacks of the rough brown sugar that Kris and Floss found in the local market. Kris also bought some lengths of a blue fabric displayed at the market so that Floss could finally have some new dresses. The girl was touched that Kris remembered such a detail amid all the others she was currently handling. Kris tried to find cinnamon and raisins but no one paid her much mind in the scurry to load the coffee beans. The entire warehouse of coffee bean sacks fit neatly into two of the three KDM cargo holds.

“Having all robustas is great,” Kris said, “but we could use some of the milder arabicas, too.” She had listened
to enough of the spiel to have absorbed some details about the romance of coffee.

“They are grown elsewhere than Kenya,” Sembu replied. “However, as ours are often used in combination with arabicas, and considering that trade is nonexistent, you might be able to exchange robustas for a few sacks of arabicas in, say, Santa Lucia in the Caribbean. If that's on your way, of course.”

“That's an island,” Kris said, trying to place it.

“In the Caribbean. There are many plantations on it. One, in fact, not far from the volcano.”

“Volcano?” An acceptable landmark, certainly.

“Oh, it's not active. Or wasn't when I last had news, but you might do a deal with them. Their beans are very good—for arabicas,” he said with a slightly deprecating smile for a lesser breed, “but excellent in its category.”

Kris grinned.

“
Asante sana
,” Bazil said politely, bowing slightly to the man.

“I never thought I'd hear a Catteni speaking Swahili. It is worth much to have you here,” Sembu said, smiling benignly down at the sturdy boy.

“Would you know, sir, where we can get some Alkoriti?” Kris asked.

“But of course.” Sembu was really surprised.

“We found some bushes the last time we were here,” she said, “for the Masai tribe that now resides on Botany. They require the plant for a rite of passage.”

“You have Masai on Botany?”

“Yes,” and when the man frowned, Kris hurried on. “They have their own settlement on the southern peninsula and we brought them some acacia bushes, but there is always a need for more Alkoriti.”

“The children grow well?” Sembu asked, interested. He had also beckoned a worker to his side and gave him a low command. The man raced down the hill at such speed Kris worried that he would do himself damage.

“Well and strong,” Bazil said proudly, “so that my father wanted me with him on this trip.”

Shortly, Zainal reappeared, having finished securing the cargo, and joined Peran.

“Sembu has offered to bring us Alkoriti,” Kris said.

“Ah, very good. Our thanks, Sembu. We promised to find more for Chief Materu.” He also winked at Kris, for now they could honestly answer queries—if there were any—as to why they had detoured to Kenya instead of departing spaceward from Newark. Jelco joined them while they waited for the return of the messenger, who came back panting somewhat from a quick round-trip, but carrying a pouch that he turned over to Sembu. Who, in his turn, passed it over to Kris.

“Please to say that we of Kenya are happy to provide this to your Masai chief.”

“You must let the green coord know when you stand in need of medicines again, Sembu, and we will return.”

“For more coffee beans, no doubt.” The man's smile was understanding.

“I shall send along more power packs for the float, too,” Zainal promised, before he bowed formally to Sembu and waved at the other workers who were unwilling to miss any of this pageant. Then Zainal led them all back into the KDM and pushed the button to retract the ramp.

Carefully, so that little dust lifted from the ground to discommode Sembu, Jax lifted the KDM away from the heights and eased the ship over the forestry before she increased power. Heading west, she turned the KDM's nose skyward and increased power until the ship could once again engage its hypersonic drives and take them back to Newark.

It was almost anticlimactic to be back in Newark air space barely two hours after they had taken off—a fact that the air tower personnel remarked on as they extended a warm welcome back, “so soon.” They were assigned their previous landing spot, and by the time Jax had
landed the KDM, there were all kinds of trucks waiting to offload the precious coffee beans.

Twenty sacks of robusta beans were left in the KDM's hold and a good half of the fresh fruit and vegetables they had acquired at Kiambu Ridge. On the way back they had all enjoyed various fruits they had acquired: bananas, oranges, passion fruit, cape gooseberries with their lanternlike husks, custard apples and guavas, avocados, coconuts, papayas, and pineapples. And there were even chicken eggs and milk. Kris made a huge custard for dessert and planned to treat everyone to pancakes for breakfast. The KDM had a freezer unit but not a refrigerator, so she could not keep milk fresh for long.